


burn, sweet baby, burn

by Anonymous



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Belly Kink, Consensual Underage Sex, Implied Gangbang, Implied/Referenced Incest, Impregnation, Inflation, Lactation Kink, M/M, Mpreg, Size Difference, Size Kink, extended pregnancy, post-term pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-19 19:28:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16540712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: for SPN Kink Meme: "Dean (as young as the author feels comfortable writing, preferably not older than 16), is pregnant with his little brother Sammy and couldn't be more content. Sure, he can't help Dad on hunts anymore, but he's going to have a little brother soon! How awesome is that? Unfortunately, it turns out that the bad guys have plans for Sammy after he's born, and Dad says the only way to keep Sammy safe right now is to keep him inside of Dean... until it's safe for him to come out. Might be a while. Weeks? Months? Years? Luckily Dad has a spell that prevents labor, but not so lucky--it doesn't prevent Sam from growing. And Sam is not a small baby, not by any means."Warning for unspecified underage!! Read those tags, folks!





	burn, sweet baby, burn

They decide on the name—Samuel, Sammy—when Dean is barely four months along. A little early, John figures, but the heavy, round swell of Dean’s belly can’t be denied any longer. His stomach is so obscene on his lanky, adolescent frame that John had worried he might be carrying twins. So they drive out into the prairie, to a healer John’s never worked with before. Dean maneuvers himself, belly and all, to perch on the end of her rough wooden table. His boots dangle a good two feet from the packed earth of the healer’s cabin floor. He looks so  small and vulnerable, obediently unbuttoning his flannel shirt. The healer touches him gently, her oiled hands moving smoothly over his stretched skin.

“One baby,” she confirms at last. “A big ‘un, no surprise there. But just one. A big, healthy boy.”

Dean’s smile bursts like the sunrise, nearly as big as when John had first confirmed that his upset stomach was morning sickness and not food poisoning from a dodgy diner. He keeps one hand pressed to his middle while the healer reminds him about the importance of good nutrition, while she packs up some herbs, while he takes the car keys and walks out to the Impala. John stays behind a few moments, pays what he owes and asks some questions of his own. When he opens the drivers’ side door, Dean is stroking his belly with two hands and mumbling Led Zeppelin lyrics like a lullaby.

Five miles later, just after they’ve turned off the healer’s unmarked track and back onto the freeway, John reaches over and lays his hand on Dean’s distended stomach. “So, I was thinking. What about Samuel? For a boy.”

Dean puts his own, smaller hand on top of John’s, on top of his pregnant belly, on top of his baby brother. “Samuel,” he tries the name out. “Sam. Sammy.” He settles deeper into the Impala’s leather. “Yeah. Yeah, I like that!”

 _“No surprise there,”_ the healer had said, taking in John’s height and the size of Dean's belly. It was natural that she’d assume John had fathered Dean’s baby. John hadn’t been exactly forthcoming about their names or their relationship. He’d just called ahead from the nearest dying railroad town and told the healer he’d gotten her name from a friend of a friend at Harvelle’s Roadhouse. He’d said only that he had a breeding boy he’d wanted her to take a look at, that he’d pay handsomely for her time. She’d agreed quickly: easy money—times are tough and knocked-up boys aren’t such a rare phenomenon as they once were. (Some say it’s the end times, some say it’s global warming. John honestly hasn’t given it much thought: decade ago, society was all worked up about pregnant teen girls, now everyone’s in a lather about pregnant teen boys. But in his line of work, it’s far from the most unnatural thing he’s ever seen)

The healer had been less surprised by Dean’s obvious youth than by his size. “Sure he’s just four months along?” she’d asked while John smoothed out large bills. They’d watched Dean walking—waddling, really—out to the Impala. “Pretty sure,” John had replied, succinctly. He doesn’t need to tell her things had gotten a little out of hand at the Roadhouse after they’d finally put down the Avoca coven. Those witches had killed Frank Mowbry’s wife. They’d killed Jeannette Longborn’s sister Ruth Marie. They’d captured Jo Harvelle and Ellen had been so pleased to get her back that she’d given the hunters the run of the Roadhouse. John is very familiar with the survivalist urge that takes over after you’ve escaped death, the adrenaline fueled urge to fuck anything that moves. He’d been trying to slow things down with Dean—boy’s not a child anymore, soon he’ll be getting curious about girls or maybe boys, and John doesn’t want to spoil that for him. But…how could he resist?

“Daddy!” Dean had crowed after the hunt, flinging himself into John’s arms. He’d been glowing with health and youth, jittery with endorphins, still splattered with witch’s blood. Smelled like boyish sweat and hops.

“Bath!” John had demanded. “Thought I told Bobby to keep an eye on you.” “He did. But we had to search the bodies for amulets and it was crazy and Ellen says I can have a beer, since I helped hunting. Didn’tya, Ellen? Can I, Daddy?”

“Just one?”

“Well, we’ve been waiting here forever so Bobby let me finish his, too, and where are we going?”

“Told ya, boy. Gotta get you a bath before that blood dries.” John had hustled Dean into Ellen’s bathroom, which is just as pink and frilly and luxurious as the woman herself is not. He is just going to stay long enough to make sure the kid is all in one piece under that mud and blood, that’s all. And maybe keep him away from the rowdier parts of the hunters’ celebration. He tugs at Dean’s mudstained flannel shirt, “Get this off. Gonna have to burn it. Jesus, what did Bobby let you get into…?”

Dean had giggled, then. And he _sounded_ like a kid, but he isn’t anymore, John realizes. He realizes this because Dean, tipsy and trembling, curls close enough that John knows, beer or not, his baby boy is rock hard. “Dea—”

“Don’t go, Dad,” Dean had said, giggles al gone. He’d looked up with those sober, seen-it-all green eyes. “Please, don’t go away. Stay with me.”

And John hadn’t been able to say no. So he’d stayed while Dean stripped down, his perfect growing body emerging from his filthy clothes. He’d stayed to see Dean slither into Ellen’s ridiculously large tub. Dean had gasped and sighed at the heat of the water, and when he’d stretched and started to jack his half-hard little cock, John had stayed for that, too. He’d watched Dean orgasm the first time, beautifully flushed in the steam and bubbles, watched him try for a second. Beg for a second. And when asked—“please, please, Dad, I need, I can’t—” John hadn’t said no, then, either.

It had been slow: Dean seemed so small, so tight. But he'd been buzzed and willing and there was a lot of warm water and all the time in the world.

John had woken up the next morning on an inflatable mattress under Ellen’s pool table with a pleasant ache in his low back and a less pleasant throb in his head. He remembered tucking Dean into a proper bed after his, uhm, bath. Remembered going back to the party. Sometime after that, he’d spotted the boy out of bed and canoodling in a corner with Jo Harvelle. He’d felt a flicker of jealousy, but he’d had to laugh: kid was a horn-dog, just like his old man.

Next morning, John had gotten slowly to his feet—he'd lost one boot somewhere—and surveyed the decimation of the Roadhouse. There were spellbooks, grimoires, and pint glasses all over the pool table, shattered glass by the door, and two hunters passed out at the bar. And Dean. Where’s…? John spotted him, stretched out behind a booth, and his son somehow sensed his approach, opening a bleary eye just as John stumbled over to him.

“Uh, hey, Dad.” Dean had his head pillowed on someone’s jacket, and someone else’s long duster coat flung over him like a blanket. A blanket from which one bare foot and hairless shin emerges.

“Looks like you enjoyed yourself last night,” John had muttered, crouching down.

“Was a party,” Dean managed to say, “’n ‘sides, you left me!” He'd sulked like only a teenager can, rolling over in a huff. John had to resist the urge to smile at Dean’s tone. Instead he'd slid down next to Dean, eased under the coat, circling his smaller body and kissing his shoulder where his flannel shirt had slipped.

“Sorry,” John says, trying to sound apologetic. And then,” You got anything on under there?”

Dean had feigned sleep, but he whimpered, lashes fluttering, when John slipped a hand under the coat.  He turned for a kiss when John’s fingers skated over his stomach and down to cup his soft cock.

“Nah,” he had whispered sleepily against John's lips. “Like you said, 'njoyed myself last night.” His hole—so tight in the bath the night before—had been slick and puffy that morning. John had worked a finger in easily, then a second. Dean clenched around him, rocked his hips back. _He wanted it_. And John wanted to give it to him. Hell, John figured, he’s giving it away, spreading his skinny thighs for any drunken hunter with a few inches in his pants. No reason for John to deny himself what everyone else was getting.

“Open up, baby,” John murmured, and Dean’s legs had parted. “Good boy.” Dean had whined, sore but eager, when John slid in, deep, deeper. “Open up, Daddy’s home.”

Dean swears the baby is John’s, says he can _feel_ it. But John’s been known to get the kid in his lap and tease and suck and jerk until he gets details about that lost night ( _“he had me up ona pool table, took me so hard I kep’ slidin’ ona felt..oh, Dad, yes, don’t stop,” “I jus’ climbed up…oh, yes, bite! Bite me, Daddy!—he was still in his chair—so big—and I moved my hips, d’you want me to show you how I did it, Daddy, how I rode ‘im?”)_ So John knows Dean let quite a few hunters at him that night. The jury is out on who actually seeded the baby in Dean’s womb.  The only thing they know for sure is that it must have been a big guy, because Dean’s not yet grown into his height, but the baby is large.

For about six weeks after they know, after the morning sickness, Dean just seems a little pudgy. John finds it adorable: his usually lean and athletic kid has curves! And then John returns to the motel one morning after a weekend research tip and, all of a sudden, Dean looks undeniably _pregnant_. Still soft, but somehow tight with it. The same thing happens after the trip to the healer. It’s not possible, but once John has him settled back into their preferred motel, he would swear Dean looks even larger than he had the day before.

“C’mere and let me see you, Dean.” Dean sheds his clothes easily enough. He’s always been obedient, a good little soldier, had barely even balked when John had said two pink lines meant no more hunting. He’s still wearing what he always wears: baggy jeans and thrift-store t-shirts with John’s hand-me-down flannel shirts. It’s not until he’s standing naked that John can see how deliciously his body has changed. His abdomen has a definite curve, jutting out from his skinny boy-hips. The skin feels taut and warm when John runs his palm over it. Below, John sees Dean’s soft little cock twitch and start to thicken.

“Are you sure we should…?”

John kisses Dean’s pretty mouth. He is _not_ sure. Not at all. On this most recent hunting trip, he’d gotten a call from Ellen: “Jo’s knocked up, and so’s Tim, Chester Bartlett’s middle kid. Happened that night, after the witch-burning.” Timmy’s older than Dean and Jo, early twenties, maybe. That’s the upper reaches of male fertility, whereas Dean’s at the lower end. Tim—like Jo, like Dean--helped put down the Avoca coven and was at the Roadhouse celebration afterwards. Covens have deep fertility magic. Clearly extinguishing the Avoca witches had released something powerful. Maybe that’s why John had found Dean so irresistible at the Roadhouse. But that’s no excuse now. Nor does it explain why John hadn’t said a word to Ellen about Dean’s condition.

John’s been gentle with Dean since they found out about the pregnancy. He’s fingered him and stroked him and sucked him off, let Dean sleep in his bed as often as not. But it hadn’t gone further. Yet. Now, John cups Dean’s cock against his rounded abdomen, thumbs the head. Dean trembles: he feels suddenly delicate despite his hefty stomach. John lets his kisses meander along Dean’s jaw to his ear. The whispered lie slips out easily. “It’s okay. The healer said I should, uh, check on your development.”

“Oh.” This seems to resolve all of Dean’s doubts. “Do you wanna. Uhm…?” He turns in John’s arms, swollen and slim, round and growing, all at once. All but offering his firm little ass.

“Yeah, I’d better. Just to, uhm. Be sure.”

Dean looks up, trusting but puzzled. He doesn't ask what there is to be sure about. “How should we…?” He blushes like he hadn’t let a train of full-grown hunters try to knock him up, like one of them hadn’t succeeded. John suddenly wonders if Dean really is too young for this. Not that it matters: based on his belly, he’s too far along for anyone to do much about it. Breeding boys who get into trouble are more difficult to sort out than girls. Besides, he’s already started shyly alluding to “when we have Sammy,” and “after Sammy.” Dean can be stubborn as hell and John’s pretty sure he’s got his heart set on carrying this baby to term.

“Well,” John kisses Dean’s forehead, “guess the bed would be a good start.” He can’t resist swatting at Dean’s perfect ass as the kid clambers onto the motel bed with unseemly haste despite his swollen midsection. “Don’t have to tell you twice!”

“Daddy!” Dean whines, embarrassed. “I’ve got, like, hormones ‘n stuff. I need it!”

He sounds like the world’s most put-upon teenager, but John remembers how filthy horny Mary had been when she’d carried the very boy who is spread out before him now. Dean’s belly looks even larger when he’s lying down: it’s so _full_ , so obviously rigid. Such a contrast with his long young limbs. John’s mostly hard before he even lies down next to his son. He feels Dean tense as he prepares to turn—kid is already so big that casual movements are a thing of the past. “No, stay,” John murmurs, and he puts his hand on Dean’s belly. John’s tongue flickering in time with his thumb in Dean’s bellybutton gives way to long, deep kisses. Dean moans, lips puffy, when John pulls away.

“Shh,” John coaxes, nudging Dean’s knee, “promised that healer I’d look after you.” He doesn’t mean it dirty—not exactly—but then he sees how Dean has hitched his legs up. He’s got his hands behind his knees, skinny thighs spread and his burgeoning belly in between. His toes curl when John touches his tight pink hole, and he opens easily. He’s gotten so good about keeping himself clean and ready since he fell pregnant; he’ll be so good with a newborn. Maybe Dean knows what he’s talking about with the hormones, because he orgasms almost as soon as John starts to stretch him with two fingers. His body seizes with pleasure, all the muscles in his hips and thighs going rigid while his belly stays smooth. John finds the right rough spot inside, watches pleasure chase across Dean’s face until he writhes with sensitivity.

“Dad-ddyyy! I need it!”

“Hmmm?” John wants to know just how bitchy Dean will get.

“Need your cock,” Dean whines, bold as if he hadn’t been blushing like a rose ten minutes and one orgasm ago.

“But you’re already,” John sucks kisses down the line of Dean’s ribs, onto the curve of his stomach. He can taste where Dean spurted all over himself. “Already so big. Gonna have to push my fingers out before you take anything else in…”

Dean does. Slowly, slowly, John feels him clench and push and open. He whimpers and holds his own stomach and finally eases John's fingers out. His eyes stay locked on John's the whole time, daring him to think Dean's too young for this. By that time, of course, his cocklet has hardened again. And John? John is rampant, so thick that he insists Dean straddle him and ride because he _needs_ Dean to take _every goddamn inch_ , and that won't happen any other way. Not when the kid is already so full.

“Stop if it’s too much,” John grits out when Dean squats over him and takes John’s cockhead into his fingered hole.

“Uh-huh,” grunts Dean. But he doesn’t stop. Just eases himself down, inch by inch, even when his thighs start quivering, even when John’s girth rubs his prostate, even when his eyes widen as he gasps—“Oh!”—and goes so throbbingly tight that John knows he’s approaching Dean’s full womb. Finally, Dean’s ass is settled on John’s groin, the globe of his belly just touching John’s furry washboard stomach. John’s moving—he has to—but he’s going slow, not thrusting so much as letting Dean’s own weight push him deeper.  John’s hands are fisted in the motel sheets but Dean’s are rubbing circles into his abdomen. John can see the dark line below Dean’s navel, the bellybutton itself about to pop as Sammy gets bigger. He remembers all those signs from Mary, but he never thought he’d have them again. Dean glances up like he can tell what John is thinking.

“Feel okay?”

Dean gives John a shy smile. “Wish it could be like this forever!”

FOUR MONTHS LATER:

“Ahhhh,” Dean lets out  wheezing little moans with each thrust, “aaahhh.” His belly is so large now he can’t manage a full breath when he’s on his back, has to dig his heels into the mattress to push up into John's thrusts. This is John’s favorite way to fuck, though, because it allows him to run his hands over the impossibly tight mound of Dean’s belly. The baby, Sam, is more active with each passing week, turning inside Dean, making his perfect skin stretch and ripple.

“He,” Dean gasps. “He likes it.” He leads John’s hand to an inch below his ribs, presses it there until John can feel the lump of a heel or a fist pushing out from inside. “Sammy likes it when you’re in me. Likes it. Deep.”

John takes the hint and abandons his slow, regular thrusts in favor of one so long that Dean arches up, his mouth going wide and soundless as John’s cockhead touches his cervix.

“Ahhhuhh-gain,” Dean manages when he can breathe. And John obliges, feeling Dean’s burdened hips shake, seeing his belly shift. The boy will be 39 weeks tomorrow. He is as big as his mother had been at this point, maybe bigger, the heft of his stomach outrageous on his wiry teen frame.  John hadn’t dared fuck Mary this long for fear of sending her into labor. But Dean is different, protected by herbs and spells.

There had been another trip to the healer, not long after the first.  More money had changed hands. A considerable amount of money. The healer has assured them both that baby Sam will continue to develop safe inside as long as Dean keeps up the regimen of potions and Latin. Dean may feel the occasional contraction over the next few weeks, but he won’t go into labor until John speaks the word of power that ends the stasis spell.

She had been right about a lot of things, this healer—just one baby, and a big one—but John wasn’t sure about this stasis spell. For one thing, Dean was already enormous: his belly was taut and swollen, the size and shape of a prize-winning pumpkin. How much more baby could he carry on those narrow young hips? For another thing, two weeks ago, Dean had shyly mentioned that he was feeling a little, uhm, itchy? (“Not hurt, Daddy, just a li’l,uh, tingly?”) And once John had him stripped him the skin, he’d noticed Dean’s sweet, pinkened nipples. Definitely thicker and perkier than they’d been. Seems like not _everything_ is in stasis.

Tim Barlett, Chester’s boy, barely makes it to 40 weeks before he pops: a large, healthy girl. Chester’s only too happy to show John photos when they run into each other at the Roadhouse. “Won’t be long for you, sweetheart,” he tells Jo kindly. John’s surprised to see the heavily pregnant girl still tending bar, but Harvelles have always been hard-headed. Not that she's behind the bar too much longer: a few days later, just after John’s headed out on his hunt, he gets a call from Ellen: twenty hours of rough labor, twin girls. Harvelles have always been fertile, too.

If the healer is to be believed, Dean’s baby is the only male produced from the Avoca debauchery. John wonders if that is significant. 'Course, there might be other pregnancies he doesn’t know about—he certainly hasn’t mentioned Dean to any of the other hunters. Sammy’s safest inside Dean, and they’re both safe if no one knows. That’s the only thing that keeps John from turning around and heading right back to the isolated cabin in the Black Hills where he has Dean hidden away. It would be suspicious if he didn’t meet up with the other hunters at the rendezvous point. (He assuages his guilt by calling Dean from a truck stop on the Nebraska border. He times it for the evening, when Dean still gets spates of weak contractions. It’s like his body is rebelling against the magic that has kept him overfull for another day. John coaches him through, reminds him to keep taking his herbs, to drink enough water. “Love you boys,” he signs off. Dean’s brave, breathy moans as he fought the contractions have made John's dick hard. He can’t help but think how big the boy will be when he makes it back to Montana in a week. Fuck, when he’d left, Dean had easily been bigger than Jo was with her twins. Twenty hours’ labor. John has to jack himself off, fast and rough, before he can leave the restroom.)

FOUR MONTHS LATER

Slowed by the stasis spell, Dean’s milk comes in after a solid year of pregnancy, making his nipples so sensitive that they leak, untouched, when John fucks him. His breasts stay small, a dense handful, squeezably soft compared to his over-stretched stomach. Now when the contractions come, Dean props himself up with pillows and lets John suckle him. Daddy’s warm mouth seems to ease the ache in his pelvis. Dean’s huge belly still gets tight during each contraction—so tight John can cup the big baby inside—and his hips try vainly to lift against Sammy's weight but, thanks to the healer, there’s no need to push. After so many months, the spasms come hard and fast. Sammy fights the pressure now, making Dean pant rhythmically, like he truly is in labor. Their baby is strong and healthy; they were right to do all they have done.

Dean usually climaxes, often more than once, at the sensation of his brother roiling in his womb, the memory of how Daddy put him there. John tongues his milky nipples and reaches around the heaving roundness of belly to fondle his oldest son's boyish balls.  He feels Dean go from soft and tender to so thick that he spurts all over Sammy as the contractions roll through them both. The pleasure makes his milk taste richer.

Afterwards, Dean is relaxed, sweetly flushed.  Even tired and loose, he’s too big to be taken on his back these days, so he rolls clumsily onto his knees. His firm belly brushes the sun-faded motel bedspread. Daddy’s strength behind him, inside in, next to Sammy, snug and heavy. Daddy has to go slowly: he’s _so_ big and there’s so little room. When he finally notches in against Dean’s cervix, Sammy does some sort of internal somersault.  After two orgasms, Dean is shocked to feel himself go instantly, impossibly hard all over again. His vision sparks and he has to take deep breaths to keep from bursting—he's just. He's just _so full_. He's faintly aware of Dad's rough hands stroking his back until he's in control again. When Dean can finally see straight, he realizes he’s moaning in time with Sammy’s movements inside him, which are in sync with Daddy’s cock throbbing against his womb. So full!

“C’mon,” Daddy’s big hands ease Dean up and back, until he’s supporting the weight of both his sons, stroking one through the tight skin of the other. “Done so good, Dean. Thirteen months.” He kisses the boy's neck, pinches his nipple to feel him buck. Sammy ripples inside. “More'n a year. Haven’t heard a thing about those witches since before your milk came in. Might be safe to let him go, now?”

“Nnnn,” Dean feels Daddy’s big, warm hand palm his overswollen belly, soothing where Sam is kicking. In a moment, Dad will start kneading Dean’s tight hip joints, opening him up, moving faster and deeper. Dean likes it best when he has all his family safe inside. “Not yet, Daddy. Let me keep him a li'l longer "


End file.
